Inspector West Alone

The man laughed.

Roger eased his collar.

“The case rests,” said the other easily. “Spend the rest of the day and to-night seeing if there’s a way out of it. If I were in your shoes, I’d come to a conclusion pretty quickly. The only courses open to you are to play ball with me or kill yourself. And if you don’t play ball with me, you will kill yourself. Your body will be found with those letters in your pockets, and a veil will hastily be drawn. Your wife will have a bad time for a while, but she’ll get over it. It’s surprising how quickly human beings recover from the worst of shocks, and she’ll have plenty of helpers. Your friend Mark Lessing will help her to bear the burden stoically, won’t he? And he’ll probably become step-father instead of uncle to your two boys. Nice kids, I’ve seen them several times. What’s the name of the elder one? Something unusual, Marion was telling me—she doesn’t believe you’ve any children, of course, she just thinks you’re a bad case. A violent case, who——”

There was just so much one could stand . . .

At the first mention of Janet, Roger had felt his muscles tensing; at mention of the boys, he’d felt a savage hatred which locked him in his chair. And that question—”what’s the name of the elder one”—brought a vivid picture of Scoopy, big, eager, and trustful, looking at him. Rage took possession of him, and he leapt up, smashed at the blurred face, hit something—and felt agonizing pain in his stomach, from a kick.

Next moment he was surrounded by a surging group of people, fighting wildly. His right arm was forced behind him in a hammerlock, he felt sick with the pain. He saw three men as well as his tormentor; two were holding him, one of them was holding something that looked like a coat harness. In the doorway stood Marion.

Marion said: “Oh, please——”

The men ignored her. Roger’s arms were forced through holes in the “coat”; and he knew it wasn’t a coat, but a strait jacket. There were tears in Marion’s eyes.

He was taken out of the room—upstairs; not into his own room, but to one much smaller—a padded cell.

*     *     *     *

He stayed there for the rest of the day and during the dread, dark night. There was a couch on which to lie. Before daylight had faded, two men had come in and fed him with a spoon; that was the only food he had. He couldn’t rest; dozed fitfully, and dreamt as soon as he dropped off. They weren’t nightmares, and he wasn’t sure whether they were dreams of waking or sleeping. He saw Marion with tears in her eyes, and Janet, with the two boys.

When daylight came, he was lying on his back on the couch, looking at the ceiling: at least that wasn’t padded. There was a small window, set high in the wall, and no sunlight, although the morning was bright enough to tell him that the sun was shining; and outside there was a quiet, bright and happy world. Happy! He tried doggedly to reason with himself, but always came back to the ultimatum: to do what the other man wanted, or to be killed—they’d make it seem like suicide. Suicide depended a lot on motive, and there was one strong enough. Any man who had gone to these fantastic lengths wouldn’t bungle a “suicide”.

But it wasn’t as simple as the man had made out. He could choose, now, between living and at least pretending to help—and no pretence would satisfy his mentor for long —and dying, and thus defeating the man’s mysterious purpose. That was a simple fact. If he refused to “play”, he would be killed.

He could make sure of bitter victory by refusing to play.

But that wouldn’t avenge the dead girl.

It wouldn’t help Janet.

It wouldn’t give Scoopy and Richard back their father.

He lay, unmoving, even when the door opened; movement wasn’t easy, once he was lying down. He expected to see the two male nurses, but instead it was Marion. She smiled at him, closed the door, determinedly, came across, and as he started to sit up, helped him. Then without a word, she began to unbuckle the strait jacket, at the back. She took it off.

His arms were numbed, pins and needles began to run up and down them; agony came. She rubbed his arms briskly.

“Do you feel better? More rested?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m so desperately anxious that you shouldn’t have another relapse,” she said. “I felt sure that you wouldn’t hurt me. You mustn’t attack your friends, you know.”

She spoke with great simplicity, as if to a child whom she was anxious to impress. He looked at her with his head on one side, and wondered what she would think if she suspected the truth. Was she sincere? Had the man told the truth about her? If so, she might become a useful ally.

“You understand, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I am going to ask them to let you return to your room again. I think perhaps you were out too soon after the last attack. Dr. Ritter believes in giving patients every possible chance.”

At last Roger had a name: Dr. Ritter. It brought reality a little nearer.

“I’ll soon be back,” promised Marion.

She didn’t close the door.

That was deliberate, either because she was putting him on trust, or because the man wanted to find out whether he was desperate enough to try to escape. What could he escape to? The certainty of arrest and the near certainty of conviction; it would be crazy to try. He couldn’t try anything. He was forced back to the choice; whether to “play” or whether to let himself be killed. He’d play, of course; he’d have to play.

Marion was soon back, and her face was radiant. No one was in the passage outside.

They were on the second floor; they walked down to the first, and she led him into the bedroom in which he had first come round. He went straight to the window, for he wanted to see that real world beyond the beech-hedge. He saw three men talking together: the gardener, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, and the man whose eyes impressed themselves so deeply on his mind.

Roger gripped Marion’s arm.

“Who are the men in the garden?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know the doctor!”

“Ritter—the tall man.” He didn’t have to think that out very deeply. “Who is the other?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. King.”

“I’ve seen him before somewhere, and can’t place him.” He put his hand in front of his eyes, as if to shut out a dread vision, and her voice became soft and soothing again as she led him towards the bed. He sat down, but didn’t lie flat. She said quietly: “That’s your very good friend, Mr. Kennedy. He brought you here.”

Marion went out.

 

CHAPTER IX

THE GAME

KENNEDY came in during the afternoon; the sun was low in the west, and Roger had finished lunch an hour— or was it two hours?—ago. Kennedy came in softly and closed the door behind him, and Roger looked up but didn’t move. Kennedy was smiling a faint, sardonic smile. He came straight across and offered cigarettes.

“Aren’t you scared of me?” Roger sneered.

“I shall never be frightened of you. West,” said Kennedy easily. “I’ve only to call for help, and my friends here will come at once. They know they’re dealing with a dangerous lunatic. Have you had time to realize the hopelessness of your position?”

“I’d like to change it.”

“You can,” said Kennedy softly. He walked to the window and looked out, beyond the trees. “Out there, the world is going on much the same as usual. Your wife, your children, your friends—all of them are living, eating, sleeping, behaving normally. If you ever want to go back into that world you’ll have to do what you’re told.”

“It would help to know what you want.”

Kennedy turned the full force of those shimmering eyes on him.

“I want you, West,” Kennedy said quietly. “The man and the policeman. Your knowledge of crime and of police methods. I want the expert on criminal investigation. The man who knows Scotland Yard as a doctor knows his patient—and better. I want inside knowledge of the C.I.D. All the tricks of the policeman’s trade. You can lay your finger on anything at Scotland Yard, and I want everything. I want you, not part of you. Mind, body, soul, if you’re fool enough to think you’ve got a soul. The rest steps out and I take possession.”

He meant every word.

His eyes were the true guide to his mind; he wasn’t sane, or he wouldn’t ask for the impossible.

He said: “No, I’m not mad, West.”

“What’s in your mind?” Roger asked roughly. “To send me back to the Yard, whitewashed?”

“Forget it. You’re wanted for murder. I’ve made the evidence too strong. If you ever left here alive and alone, you’d swing. Thinking about escape won’t help you. You can only escape to death.”

Be rational; use reason.

“It sounds wonderful. I work for you and forget my past.”

“You haven’t got a past.”

“Wife? Family?”

“They’re alive. They’re well. They’re not in danger. Forget them.”

“Every C.I.D. man in the country, every patrol man, every village copper, every journalist, and about thirty million people who’ll know what I look like when the Yard really releases this story, will be on the look-out for me.”

“They won’t find you. You won’t look yourself. You won’t be yourself.”

Roger swung round, to stare into the peaceful grounds, to convince himself that this was happening, to grope and gasp. Kennedy didn’t speak or move. A thrush flew down and drove a dozen sparrows away from crumbs which lay white on the lawn.

“Make up your mind,” Kennedy said.

“What do I get out of it? I’m to lose plenty.”

“You’ll be alive.”

“I suppose I’m to live on air.”

Kennedy threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but high-pitched and grating; it matched his eyes. He clapped his hands together, crossed the room and slapped Roger on the back. Roger stood rigid, although the touch was loathsome.

“You’re like the rest, Roger! High-minded while you’ve no temptation. What you mean is—what’s in it for you?”

“Well, what is in it for me?”

“A fortune. An easy life. Plenty of the right kind of company. Do what you’re told and put your best into it, and you can have the world.”

“But nothing out of my past?”

“Nothing,” said Kennedy.

Roger said: “You say you want the man as well as the policeman. Both have memories.”

“It’s easy to forget.” Kennedy’s voice was soft, now, almost a hiss. He turned away, as if to hide the glitter in those frightening eyes. “I know it’s easy, because I’ve forgotten.” He was haunted by memories at this moment, they crowded upon him and he fought them away savagely. “You won’t remember anything for long, not in a way that hurts. You’ll think of the others as dead. Going to play. West?”

There was more in it than this: the whole plan wasn’t unfolded, only a corner was turned up.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You don’t have to. Will you play?”

“It looks as if I’ll have to.”

“You’ll be given paper and pencil,” Kennedy said. “Write out a list of all the senior officers at Scotland Yard, and their special duties. Indicate the particular qualities of each man. Make a precis of the way the organization works. That’ll fill in your spare time for the rest of the day. Make sure it’s right in every detail.”

He went out abruptly.

*     *     *     *

There was no great betrayal in this; few secrets; none Roger need give away. He wrote until his fingers and wrist ached. The male nurse came in with his evening meal, and took away all he had written.

Night came slowly, but he wasn’t tired. He had a watch, now, all the cigarettes and matches he needed, and whisky; the beginning of the “easy” life. His mind was alert, things were crystal clear. His first task was to convince Kennedy that he would really “play”. There’d be trick-tests and crafty traps, and he would have to be on his guard every waking moment, until Kennedy was finally convinced of his goodwill.

He began to think, dispassionately, of how he could send word to Janet and the Yard, and if he found a way, whether he should do it. Janet, when vexed and sharp-voiced if he’d worked too late, had a trick of gibing: “You’re a policeman first, man second.” There was truth in it; never more truth than now. The battle was on—a strange, tenuous, bitter battle.

*     *     *     *

He was asleep when Marion came to him. For a moment, he thought it was Janet. He started up. Only the dim light was on, and she sat on the bed, looking fragile.

“What is it?”

She said : “I’m terribly frightened.”

“You’re frightened!”

“Yes.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

She asked: “Who are you?”

Beware the traps.

“Don’t you know?”

“I thought—you were Arthur King.”

“Aren’t I?”

“He called you by another name.”

“Who? The doctor?”

“No. Kennedy.”